


The Meaning of This City

by irisbleufic



Series: Configured Stars [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 04, Alternate Season/Series 05, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Countdown to Final Crisis, Deception, Difficult Decisions, Don’t copy to another site, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hiding, Look At Your Life Look At Your Choices, M/M, Reconciliation, Reveal, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 05, Strained Friendships, Strained Relationships, Trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-09 05:51:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18910861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: “Where’s this place, exactly?” asked Jeremiah, as Bruce backed them into the street and sped off.“Midtown,” Bruce replied, swerving to avoid a cluster of people that looked somewhat unruly.“Are you going to tell me what these accommodations are?” Jeremiah pressed. “Safe house?”“Penthouse,” Bruce corrected, taking the next turn at breakneck speed. “My city residence.”Jeremiah sat back and lifted the handkerchief, eyeing the bloodstain. At least none was fresh.“You sure know how to show a guy a great time,” he deadpanned, suddenly feeling drained.





	1. From Light to Light

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from T.S. Eliot’s “[Choruses from The Rock](http://www.tech-samaritan.org/blog/2010/06/16/choruses-from-the-rock-t-s-eliot/),” as are the chapter subtitles, with thematic focus on these lines:
> 
> _When the Stranger says: "What is the meaning of this city?_   
>  _Do you huddle close together because you love each other?"_   
>  _What will you answer?_

Bruce had spent the morning feeling useless. He’d been trailing after Jeremiah as he had disassembled and reassembled generator components, methodically making notes on his clipboard. 

Most of their mornings or afternoons together had been like this for the better part of eight weeks. Periodically, Bruce had delivered Jeremiah’s ongoing instructions and prototype-assembly reports to Wayne Laboratories one stage at a time. 

Even as they’d gotten closer, Jeremiah had grown increasingly anxious. Bruce understood that two months since the day they’d met—and two _days_ since the coroner had released Jerome’s body for burial—wasn’t sufficient time for recovery.

In spite of his fragility, Jeremiah had begun to smile. He’d begun to respond to casual touch without flinching, and he’d even lingered over finger-brushes and leaned into elbow-bumps as they worked.

Bruce had embraced Jeremiah once, in elation, when a component trial succeeded. He’d lowered his head just shy of resting it on Jeremiah’s shoulder, and Jeremiah had sighed in contentment.

Whenever Jeremiah asked Bruce to locate a specific tool, Bruce fetched it without question. Now, as he watched Jeremiah critically inspect the final product, he could scarcely believe that the device in front of them had been in pieces just over three hours before.

“That bored, huh?” Jeremiah teased, annotating the list on his clipboard. “Come back to me.”

“Jeremiah,” Bruce said, “I didn’t think you’d get the generator program working so quickly.”

“You ready for a demonstration,” Jeremiah ventured, grinning as he slapped his clipboard and pen on the desk, “or has the mass-production team stolen my thunder? I might have to send them a stern memo.”

“No, they haven’t,” Bruce said, pulse quickening as he returned Jeremiah’s mirth, “and yes, I’m ready. I gave them your orders not to test activation until we’ve done it here. They know that honor’s off-limits.”

“Okay,” Jeremiah said, adjusting the prototype’s control-pad. “Hit that switch there—” he indicated the one on the wall nearest to them “—and the facility will be disconnected from the power grid.”

Knowing full well they’d be plunged into pitch-darkness, Bruce hit the mechanism and made for the desk. Unable to see within seconds, he felt his way along the edge until he could sense Jeremiah’s warmth, could hear Jeremiah’s continued fiddling with the controls.

“Everything all right?” Bruce asked, reaching blindly, catching the hand Jeremiah had at his side.

As the generator flared, blue-white brilliance at the heart of the room, Jeremiah turned to him.

“Yes,” he said quietly, stepping closer even as Bruce reached for his other hand. “Just watch.”

“I’m watching,” Bruce replied, pointedly keeping his eyes fixed on Jeremiah’s as every light-bulb, monitor screen, and appliance flickered back to life around them. “I’m here.”

Jeremiah had registered how close they were standing. He hadn’t let go of Bruce’s hands.

“Ambient energy,” he explained in a rush. “No cables or wires of any kind. It’s clean and stable. Harvested from micro-tremors and air-density shifts, it’s…virtually without costs.”

“And with the prototypes at Wayne Labs, we can power _all_ of Gotham?” Bruce asked, amazed.

Jeremiah nodded, chewing the inside of his lower lip. His eyes had settled on Bruce’s mouth.

Whatever fierce hope they’d left unspoken, Bruce wasn’t inclined to let it languish any longer.

“There’s nothing I can possibly say to thank you, so I…” Bruce leaned forward with a gasp of surprise when Jeremiah closed his eyes and inclined his head. The kiss was soft and uncertain, but neither one of them held back. 

Bruce slid his tongue tentatively along Jeremiah’s lips, jolting when Jeremiah licked past his. He brought his left hand up to stroke Jeremiah’s cheek, dazedly aware, when his fingertips slid tackily across Jeremiah’s skin, that he could smell something like sunscreen.

As abruptly as he’d begun to relax, Jeremiah stiffened and pulled back. He released Bruce and turned away, head bowed in profile as he attempted to catch his breath. Every line of his posture radiated distress.

“Sorry,” Bruce said, mortified. “I shouldn’t have moved so fast, I should’ve _asked_ —”

“Please don’t,” said Jeremiah, painfully restrained. “I met you halfway. The feeling is…mutual, and I can’t begin to…” He tried to compose himself, but failed. “You’ve kept this project a secret, yes?”

“That’s…a relief, then,” Bruce replied, dizzy with elation, wishing Jeremiah would look at him, “and of course. You don’t need to worry. No one outside of Wayne Industries knows it exists.”

Jeremiah squared his shoulders and looked up, the right side of his face still hidden from view.

“Bruce, I’m…I’m sorry for what you’re about to…” He turned his head, somberly meeting Bruce’s gaze as the two pale streaks down his right cheek became visible. “It’s the ones who are closest to you that you have to keep your eye on. I know better than anyone.”

Disoriented as he made an attempt to understand what he was seeing, Bruce stared at him. There was an intensity to Jeremiah’s demeanor that betrayed more than mere flusterment at the confession they’d just made.

“Arkham Asylum sent me Jerome’s personal effects,” Jeremiah said, making a bee-line for the low antique cabinet on which the whiskey decanter sat. “Among them, I found this diary,” he went on, removing what looked like a sticker-covered Moleskine from the top drawer. “It’s a catalogue of his fantasies and goals, every twisted vision he ever had.”

Apprehensive, but willing to let Jeremiah do whatever was necessary to make his point, Bruce followed him to the drafting table. He stepped close as Jeremiah set the book down and began to flip through pages, alarmed at the increasingly chaotic, macabre contents.

“Maybe you shouldn’t spend so much time reading it,” Bruce said gently, touching his shoulder.

Jeremiah glanced sharply at Bruce’s hand, as if it had stung him, but didn’t pull away. He sought Bruce’s eyes for the briefest of moments, and then kept flipping pages. He seemed desperate to find something.

“Jerome was obsessed with torturing and murdering me, James Gordon, and you. Bruce, he wanted to…” Jeremiah straightened up as Bruce set his hand on the pages. He appeared to snap out of his paranoid spiral just long enough to remove and set aside his glasses. “He wanted to do unspeakable things to you, I just _couldn’t_ —”

Bruce pulled him forward by the shirt, clinging as they kissed a second time. He felt guilty, hiding an ulterior motive, but closeness confirmed the acrid scent was some kind of cosmetic. Was Jeremiah ill?

“If he had been just the least bit sane, he would have destroyed us all,” Jeremiah said with something that wasn’t quite sadness, caressing Bruce’s cheek as he withdrew, “and Gotham would be in ruin.”

“Your brother’s dead, Jeremiah,” Bruce insisted, reaching for him even as Jeremiah took another step back. “It’s time for you to come out of this bunker and join the world. I’ll be beside you.”

“Yes,” Jeremiah said, touching the mystifying marks on his cheek. “He’s…he’s dead. I still have trouble believing it.” When Bruce’s phone buzzed, he snapped to attention with palpable displeasure. “Who is that?”

“It’s just Alfred,” Bruce said as reassuringly as he could, stepping away to answer. “Yeah?”

“Master Bruce, I’ve got some rather disturbing news,” Alfred said, sounding less than pleased. “Jerome Valeska’s acolytes are kicking off again.”

Bruce watched Jeremiah clutch the diary with a hunted expression. “Ah. Thank you, Alfred.”

“If it means what I think it means, you two will need backup,” Alfred said. “I’m on my way.”

Jeremiah pocketed the diary, approaching Bruce with an urgent, increasingly desolate air.

“You’ll find this troubling, but I won’t sugar-coat it,” Bruce said, stepping close enough to set both hands on Jeremiah’s face in concerned inquiry. “It seems some of Jerome’s followers are causing trouble, but Alfred didn’t say…” When Jeremiah didn’t flinch, he trailed both sets of fingers down Jeremiah’s cheeks, staring at the livid white marks his touch left behind. “Jeremiah, what—what _happened_?”

“Bruce, I—” Jeremiah took hold of Bruce’s wrists, turning Bruce’s hands palm-up so that the stains on his fingertips were visible “—I need to tell you something. After Jerome died, he left one last trap for me. That night, all those weeks ago, after you brought me home from dinner, there…there was a package.” He released Bruce’s hands and turned away, withdrawing a handkerchief from his pocket. “I opened it. Inside, there was this…it was a jack-in-the-box rigged with a recording of Jerome’s voice.”

Bruce couldn’t speak for the swell of terror in his chest, watching in confusion as Jeremiah used the handkerchief to scrub at his face and neck.

Jeremiah’s curious actions didn’t end there. He pinched at his eyes, hissing in discomfort, and folded something in the handkerchief before tossing it aside. Shaking, he remained with his back turned even as Bruce touched his arm.

“It sprayed me with his insanity gas,” concluded Jeremiah, in detachment and defeat. “A special mixture just for you, brother, he said.”

Determined to defy the numbness that had paralyzed him, Bruce seized Jeremiah’s shoulders.

“Jeremiah, is—” he spun Jeremiah to face him, stunned at the sight “—is that why you’re…”

With his clear, unblinking, _otherworldly_ gaze, Jeremiah regarded Bruce with candid regret.

“Yes, Bruce, I’m afraid so.” He leaned in for a dry, tense kiss that ended with a _click_ , pressing the barrel of a gun to Bruce’s chest before backing away. “I wish I could explain this to you now, but I have to go. There’s a…graveside service of sorts I’m late for.”

Bruce raised both hands slowly, taking in the scene—Jeremiah, bright-eyed and blanched, backing away from him with a Derringer in hand—as if watching from underwater. The generator’s dull, throbbing luminescence furthered the illusion.

Gun still unhappily pointed at Bruce, Jeremiah drew his phone from his pocket and hit speed-dial. He bit the inside of his lower lip again.

Caught between horror at what Jerome had done and his inability to look away, Bruce swallowed. Jeremiah had always been unassumingly beautiful, but _now_? He was pulse-stopping, everything that the minotaur at the heart of a maze was not.

“Don’t go,” Bruce managed, pleading. “I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what’s going on, how this happened! I need to understand—”

“That’s the point,” Jeremiah said, eyes glittering as he backed into the doorway. “Before the day’s out, I hope you will.” Someone finally picked up on the other end of the line. “Ecco? It’s me. Listen, I need you to not—” he glanced at Bruce fearfully, as if begging forgiveness “—I need you to _stop_. Leave, don’t go through with it, but still meet me—yes, you _heard_ what I said. Let him run crying to Gordon when he wakes up, for all I care, just—do it! Could be advantageous. Yes, _really_. Was that so hard? Thank you.”

Bruce’s chest tightened as Jeremiah put the phone away. He pressed the fingertips of his free hand against one damp, pinkish eyelid and then the other, as if astonished to find wetness there. He’d seemed dangerously near tears ever since flipping through Jerome’s fantasies.

“Don’t go,” Bruce repeated frantically, watching Jeremiah spin on his heel. “ _Please_!”

The only thing left for him to do was wait in front of the monitors until Jeremiah had cleared the maze and emerged into daylight. Watch him pace in fretful, stiff-stepping agitation for a full ten minutes until an unfamiliar utility truck came barreling down the lane. Watch him get in.

Bruce was breathless by the time he cleared the maze himself, his lungs burning. He’d no sooner yanked open the Mustang’s door than a GCPD cruiser screeched to a halt alongside him. For once, he was strangely, guiltily relieved at the prospect of recusing himself from civic duty.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Jim demanded, exiting the vehicle. “Where’s Jeremiah?”

“I need to find Alfred,” said Bruce, already in the driver’s seat. “There’s no time to explain.”


	2. Darkness Outside and Within

Jeremiah hadn’t expected to feel such emptiness grave-side, even with the satisfaction of Jerome’s corpse left slumped against the headstone by his devotees. The plan hadn’t called for him to arrive alone, of course, but plans perforce had to remain mutable.

Bruce had pleaded with Jeremiah instead of wresting control from him, instead of making the trip to Stoker Cemetery his initiative. Bruce had wanted them to stay; he’d wanted to _listen_.

Jeremiah had expected to have to force the issue by whatever means, including putting Bruce in peril. Now, he was ashamed.

Ecco had arrived with Jerome’s crew, silent in her Mummer’s mask. She’d tilted her head as if to ask, _Why no honored guest? Why this change, too?_

It had been simple enough to start his speech by toppling Jerome into the unsettled earth, relief enough to realize the rabble were already spooked at the sight of his stark pallor.

All the while, as he’d castigated and cajoled them, this had projected on loop at the back of his mind: Bruce’s entranced stare and unreadable expression on seeing his true face.

He’d taken curiously little pleasure in donning the trappings he’d instructed Ecco to have in readiness—his least-worn coat, brand-new fedora, and a pair of tinted shades that had belonged to his mentor of an unacknowledged father. Light hurt his eyes.

Even retrieval of his devices from Wayne Laboratories and painstakingly placing a handful around the city held insufficient joy. Even confronting Harvey Bullock—in the wake of his bunker’s carefully-timed remote demolition, with Jim Gordon inside it—bored him.

There would have been nail-biting anticipation in calling Bruce to guide him through the hall of horrors he’d had Crane devise—except, in a moment of extraordinary weakness, he’d canceled the butler’s abduction and left Bruce alone in the maze.

Realizing that Bruce might not have escaped before Gordon’s arrival was troubling, but the repeated press of Bruce’s lips had felt like a vow: _Why leave me when I’ll only follow?_

Inexplicably, Jeremiah’s plan had gone awry again. Penguin and his meddling friends, as well as an improbably-surviving Gordon and _his_ , had left Jeremiah with no choice but to incinerate his fickle borrowed ranks and flee.

The subsequent visit from some tedious self-styled sorcerer, he hadn’t been expecting, but Ra’s al Ghul had made a salient point. In doing so, he’d confirmed what Jeremiah had long suspected, and then sealed with three mesmerizing kisses.

Gotham as he dreamed it—idealized it, _sought_ it—was not a city solely of his making.

“Find Bruce,” Ra’s had said, too kindly for his words to be anything but a threat. “Bring him.”

Dusk was falling by the time Jeremiah reached the Palisades on foot. Keeping to the shadows had been easier said than done, especially with all of Gotham on alert. One would’ve thought that the destruction of such an outdated eyesore would’ve been eminently desirable.

Preventing himself from answering his phone every time it went off—Bruce’s number, so frequent as to seem frantic—had taken every shred of willpower he possessed.

The front gate of Wayne Manor stood open, as if Bruce had left it that way in hopes he’d arrive.

Insultingly easy, the lack of a need for breaking and entering, but the part of Jeremiah that was desperate to see Bruce again quickened his steps through the darkened entrance hall. He drew the Zigana from his shoulder holster as he approached the library, recalling it from the single, heavily-guarded covert visit he’d made to the Manor a month before. 

Voices beyond the half-open door, he’d been able to hear, but hadn’t expected one of the three.

While Bruce stood in front of the fireplace with his arms folded, posture suggesting misery, Alfred Pennyworth sat on the leather sofa that faced Jeremiah. The young woman beside him, who was busy un-taping a piece of gauze from his forehead and checking the wound Ecco had given him, was none other than Selina Kyle.

“If you take one more step,” said Selina, on her feet with whip ready in a flash, “you’ll regret it.”

Jeremiah didn’t put his firearm away, but he put his hands up when the butler drew one on him.

Bruce looked as if it was taking every ounce of _his_ willpower not to rush to Jeremiah.

“Looks like you’re outnumbered, mate,” Alfred said, glancing sidelong at Bruce. “Well, speak?”

“I’d like to apologize for not taking your calls,” Jeremiah said to Bruce, who was stonily silent.

“As if it weren’t bad enough you worried him sick,” Alfred went on, “what’s this they’re saying on the news? You popped ’round the precinct with a bunch of nutters, and then blew up the bell tower?”

“Both at once, actually, to be perfectly transparent,” Jeremiah said calmly, still addressing Bruce.

“They say you gave Harvey six hours to evacuate the city,” Bruce seethed. “That it’s started.”

Jeremiah nodded gravely, attempting to ignore the sudden surge of nausea that gripped him.

“I’m afraid that events over which I no longer have control have been set in motion,” he said.

“Bit late for a show of regret, isn’t it?” Alfred said, twitching the gun to direct Jeremiah until he sank in the armchair not far from Bruce. “What d’you reckon we should do? Haul him in?”

Bruce stepped closer to Jeremiah and pulled the Zigana out of his hand, but didn’t point it at him.

“Who said anything about regret?” Jeremiah said, folding his hands in his lap. “I did what needed to be done. Granted, I already modified my design such that you, Mr. Pennyworth,” he continued, shooting Alfred an accusatory look, “are still alive.”

Furious, Bruce set his hand on the arm of Jeremiah’s chair and leaned menacingly close to him.

“Jeremiah, I begged you not to go,” he seethed. “I asked you to explain what was happening!”

“Uh, Bruce?” Selina said, using the whip to point even though he wasn’t looking at her. “Gun?”

Jeremiah removed his hat, tipped the shades down the bridge of his nose, and raised his eyebrows. The effect on Bruce was almost immediate.

“She makes a sound point,” he said hesitantly. “How do you know I don’t mean you harm?”

Bruce tore his conflicted eyes away from Jeremiah’s face. He shoved the Zigana against Jeremiah’s chest, turning to look at Selina and Alfred.

“I want the two of you to leave Wayne Manor,” he said hollowly. “I want you to evacuate.”

“Nuh-uh,” Selina said, poised to strike. “Not gonna happen. Your friend here’s gone nuts.”

“I’d listen to her if I were you, Master Bruce,” said Alfred, but, illogically, set down his gun.

Using the chair-arms for leverage, Jeremiah pushed to his feet, nudged Bruce’s aim askance, and popped the Derringer from beneath his sleeve. He pointed it at Selina.

Bruce swung the Zigana back into alignment, this time pressing it right over Jeremiah’s heart.

“For the last time,” he said, and then jerked his aim from Jeremiah to Alfred, “get out. _Go_.”

“I dunno what you’re trying to prove,” Selina sighed, putting one hand in the air, reaching behind her to grab Alfred’s wrist with the other, “but it’s your funeral.”

“Put that away,” Bruce hissed at Jeremiah, between clenched teeth, “or I will shoot you.”

“You’re no fun,” Jeremiah said, slipping the firearm in his coat pocket. “There. Happy?”

Alfred paused on the threshold before letting Selina drag him out. “Join us as soon as you’ve got this sorted, yeah?” he said to Bruce, shamelessly imploring. “Swear it.”

“As soon as I can, Alfred,” Bruce said quietly, aiming the Zigana at Jeremiah again. “I swear.”

Once they were alone in the low-lit room, Jeremiah knocked the gun out of Bruce’s hand and shoved him up against the brickwork alongside the mantel. He tore off his shades, realizing that Bruce wasn’t even putting up a struggle.

“Fine, we’ll have it your way,” Jeremiah sneered, stunned at how hurt he felt. “Try to save me.”

Bruce blinked at him, flinging the Derringer—which he’d pickpocketed, clever—on the floor.

“I don’t think you need saving,” he said, taking hold of Jeremiah’s lapels. “I think you weren’t in control of your actions at first, except…you’ve already sabotaged yourself, haven’t you?”

Jeremiah glared at him. “Maybe,” he said bitterly, “but that doesn’t matter. If I don’t deliver you to that mentor of yours at the agreed-upon location, he’ll hunt us down.”

Bruce’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Do you mean Ra’s al Ghul? He knew where to find you?”

Jeremiah shrugged, loosening his hold on Bruce’s shoulders. “Seems everyone knows that.”

“What are you even talking about?” Bruce asked in confusion, reflexively tightening his grasp.

“Some other charming friends of yours tracked me down,” Jeremiah said. “Tried to use me to extort fifty million dollars from the mayor. Like _that_ was going to work?”

Bruce landed a punch so dazzlingly precise that Jeremiah staggered. How terrible, to realize with merciless clarity that he had no idea which of them was the more wretchedly in love.

“I deserved that,” Jeremiah sighed, prodding his split lip. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

Fetching both firearms from the floor, plus Alfred’s from the coffee table, Bruce looked just as miserable as before. He handed Jeremiah the Derringer and the Zigana, and then went to the desk. He fetched his coat, put it on, and pocketed Alfred’s revolver.

“What can you do?” Bruce asked, whipping a handkerchief from his other pocket. He dabbed at Jeremiah’s lip while Jeremiah holstered both of his guns. “Help me defeat Ra’s, that’s what.”

“Forgive me if I sound skeptical,” Jeremiah sighed, examining the blood-stains before taking the handkerchief from Bruce and stuffing it in his waistcoat pocket, “but the man can vanish at will.”

“Did Ra’s tell you that, according to prophecy, I’m his heir?” Bruce asked, fetching Jeremiah’s hat from the arm of the chair. “That he convinced me I was destined to kill him?”

“The heir part, yes,” Jeremiah replied, fascinated as Bruce stuck the fedora on his own head. “The murder part, no. Let me guess—you didn’t do it?”

Scowling, Bruce fetched Jeremiah’s shades from the floor, too, and impatiently held them out. 

“I _did_. But Tabitha Galavan and cultists associated with Ra’s baited me and Selina to where he’d been buried. They used my blood to resurrect him.”

Jeremiah took the glasses and tucked them inside his coat. “What is this, a daytime soap?”

Bruce struggled to maintain his composure. “I can’t believe you said that with a straight face.”

“You and me both,” Jeremiah muttered, adjusting the angle of his hat on Bruce. “How do we…”

“Stop Ra’s?” Bruce said, flushing as he glanced aside. “We need the ritual dagger I used before.”

“Where is this magic knife, then,” Jeremiah sighed, rolling his eyes, “and how do we get it?”

“That’s the problem,” Bruce replied hesitantly. “It’s with Barbara Kean and Tabitha Galavan.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Jeremiah said, getting the shape of things. “The ones I pissed off a bit earlier.”

“Forget about that,” said Bruce, taking his phone from his pocket. “Where are we going?”

“That stretch of warehouses on Welling Avenue that overlook the river,” Jeremiah told him.

Bruce was already composing a text, pondering only briefly before he hit _SEND_.

“If that doesn’t get them to show up,” he said, “then…we’re both goners. It doesn’t matter.”

Suddenly nauseous again, Jeremiah took a breath and offered Bruce his hand. “I beg to differ.”

Staring for a few seconds, as if remembering his actions that morning, Bruce accepted it.

“C’mon,” he said, dragging Jeremiah the way Selina had dragged Alfred. “We’ll take the car.”

On their way down the driveway, under the dark, forgiving blue of nightfall, Jeremiah paused.

“If things hadn’t gone how they did this morning,” he asked, “what were _your_ plans?”

Bruce squeezed Jeremiah’s hand, staring moodily at the road ahead. “I was going to ask you to lunch.”


	3. Dreaming of Perfect Systems

After parking the Mustang several blocks from the warehouse, Bruce and Jeremiah started to walk. It was cold for a June evening, so Bruce had no difficulty imagining it was April again, when he and Jeremiah had taken brief walks in the woods.

“So the bunker explosion wasn’t an accident,” Bruce said pensively. “It _was_ you.”

“Jim Gordon’s death, or at least the appearance thereof, was a means to an end,” Jeremiah sighed. “Some good that gambit did me.” He took Bruce’s bare hand in his red-gloved one, brushing his thumb across the back. “It’s a shame you left my hat in the car.”

Bruce slowed to a stop in the shadows, pulling Jeremiah around to face him. “Why’s that?”

Jeremiah shrugged, the blood on his lip as bright beneath the lamplight as his copper hair.

“Because it suits you,” he murmured, lifting his hand as if to touch Bruce’s face, but let it drop. “Pains me to say this, _but_ —it’s in our best interests to seem at odds.”

“Ra’s will expect it,” Bruce said dully. “I understand. You said his crew are under orders?”

“To collect the bombs,” Jeremiah confirmed, “which I assume they’re doing, or have done.” 

“Would there be any way at all,” Bruce asked, “to prevent them from reaching the bridges?”

“Unless Ra’s has gotten his act together communication-wise and joined the twenty-first century,” Jeremiah said solemnly, “then no. I doubt they can be reached.”

Bruce closed his eyes, nodding once. He would trust that Alfred and Selina had gotten to safety.

Jeremiah brushed his knuckles against Bruce’s chin. “I can’t undo what’s done. You know that.”

Opening his eyes, Bruce nodded. “Ra’s would’ve set the city ablaze with or without your help.”

“We ought to bind your hands to make this look convincing,” Jeremiah observed. “Thoughts?”

“Agreed,” Bruce said hesitantly, “but I don’t have anything we can use.” He took stock of what Jeremiah was wearing and made a snap decision, grasping the belt of Jeremiah’s coat.

In an attempt to yank it free, all he managed to do was pull Jeremiah closer. It was too much.

They kissed, swift and strained, while Bruce freed the belt. Jeremiah shed his coat on the asphalt.

Bruce removed the revolver from his coat pocket, tucked it into the empty side of Jeremiah’s shoulder holster, and handed him the belt. “Not too loose. I imagine you carry a knife.”

“Several,” Jeremiah said, binding Bruce’s wrists. “I’m hoping they won’t find the one strapped to my ankle, but we can’t have everything. They may take the guns.”

“It depends on how many of his men have stayed behind,” Bruce said, testing Jeremiah’s knots.

“If Ms. Kean and Ms. Galavan deliver, we have a fighting chance,” Jeremiah said. “If not…”

“Jeremiah, if we make it through this,” Bruce said with unwavering resolve, “promise—”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Jeremiah hissed, pressing his lips to Bruce’s cheek. “Whither thou goest.”

“We need to stop this,” Bruce said, taking an unsteady step back, “before someone sees.”

“Speaking of,” Jeremiah said, hastily loosening his tie, “a blindfold wouldn’t go amiss.”

“I can still see at the edges,” Bruce said approvingly while Jeremiah knotted it. “Ready.”

Coldly convincing, Jeremiah grasped Bruce’s arm and led him the remaining two blocks.

No words passed between any of the guards who admitted them to the building, and Jeremiah didn’t speak to them, either. Bruce counted two that grabbed his arms once Jeremiah released him to take the lead, plus two that followed closely behind.

The elevator into which they crowded smelled of damp and rust. When it finally shuddered to a halt and the doors creaked open, Bruce felt Jeremiah perfunctorily touch between his shoulder blades before stepping around him, and then into the open.

There was the rustle of plastic being lifted as Jeremiah led Bruce and his immediate escort into a wider, airier space. Bruce was brought to an abrupt halt, at which point Jeremiah’s fingertips skimmed his ears in the process of removing Bruce’s blindfold.

Bruce was able to meet Jeremiah’s eyes for only the briefest of seconds before Jeremiah turned and strode ahead. He was striking against the backdrop just beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, as well as passing through the more immediate tableau.

Ra’s al Ghul stood flanked by another pair of guards while Jeremiah, busy re-donning his tie, bypassed him. He stopped next to the window, using his reflection in it to finish adjusting his collar. He angled his body toward Bruce, gaze cool and steady.

Bruce noted that Jeremiah wasn’t wearing the shoulder holster. He realized Ra’s was waiting.

“So it’s true,” he said, using the sight of Ra’s to fuel his half-feigned scorn. “How did you two—”

“Find each other?” asked Ra’s, cordially approaching him. “I’d like to think it was you, Bruce.” Bruce’s escort released him. “You brought us together,” Ra’s went on, putting an arm around Bruce, leading him forward as he addressed Jeremiah. “I trust things went smoothly?”

“Like clockwork,” Jeremiah replied, placidly unblinking. “Did your men retrieve my bombs?”

“They are _en route_ to their positions as we speak,” Ra’s reassured him. “From here,” he said to Bruce, with a sweeping gesture at the skyline, “we can take in the full majesty of Gotham’s destruction.”

“You’re both insane,” Bruce said, looking from Ra’s to Jeremiah, refusing to advance any further once Ra’s let go.

The six guards had fanned out behind him.

“I know it’s difficult to fathom, Bruce,” said Ra’s, “but Jeremiah and I are doing this for your benefit.”

Jeremiah, who had gone back to gazing out over the city, turned back to Bruce again, expectant.

“How is destroying Gotham supposed to help me?” Bruce demanded. He realized that the onus of stalling until Barbara and Tabitha arrived, if they even _would_ , was on him.

“Because I had a vision,” Ra’s replied, “that out of this crucible of blood and fire will rise the Dark Knight that your city needs. That I need.”

“To be honest, Bruce,” said Jeremiah, with a hint of mild disdain, “prophecies, visions? Not really my cup of tea. But our friend revealed something to me,” he continued, approaching Bruce with reverence, “that my twin obsessions, rebuilding Gotham and rebuilding you, are one and the same.”

“I know losing Jerome has been hard on you,” Bruce improvised. “Harder than you’ll admit.”

The flash in Jeremiah’s eyes, where once it might have been abject fury, was all fond pride.

“I think you could be so strong,” he said, effortlessly seductive as he set a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “I see it. Our friend sees it, too. He opened up my eyes, showed me that everything I was doing was not to create a Gotham of my own, but yours. The Gotham _you_ need, your dark island. And it _will_ come to be, Bruce—tonight.”

Bruce looked at him, glad that it meant hiding his expression from Ra’s. “What are you saying?”

“We will create a legacy in this city,” Jeremiah murmured. “Gotham falls; we rise. Together.”

“I wish we could have,” Bruce said, aware neither of them was pretending anymore. “I wish…”

Jeremiah’s gaze now conveyed equal parts longing and desperation. Their back-up was late.

Bruce inclined his head, as if defeated, but with a sense of urgency. He wondered if his next tactic was too bold—if Jeremiah would even read his cue, let alone follow through.

Jeremiah sighed and leaned closer, using his free hand to turn Bruce’s face the rest of the way.

“You seem troubled,” he murmured, stroking Bruce’s cheek as he leaned in. “It pains me. Maybe I can convince you otherwise, seeing as we have some… _history_.”

Bruce didn’t part his lips against the insistent press of Jeremiah’s, not at first, but his false resistance didn’t hold. He wanted to blame his recklessness on the knowledge that this might be the last kiss they’d ever share.

Jeremiah winced in surprise, pulling Bruce tight against him in spite of Bruce’s bound hands.

Bruce didn’t have the chance to register whether or not Ra’s had reacted. In the space of as many seconds as it took for Jeremiah to free Bruce’s hands without breaking the kiss, the click of heels from behind them shattered the moment.

“Looks like somebody’s having fun,” said Barbara, blithely, winking as Jeremiah released Bruce and spun him around. “Sure you wanna leave?” she asked Ra’s. “Oh, hey, Bruce,” she went on, and then shifted her gaze over Bruce’s shoulder. “ _Freak_.”

Bruce grasped at the air behind him, relieved when Jeremiah took his hand. He backed up until Jeremiah caught the gist and grabbed both of Bruce’s wrists, pretending to restrain him.

“Hello, Barbara,” said Ra’s, his tone running counter to his words. “I’m really glad you came.”

“Bad news, baby,” Barbara replied. “I’m not leaving. Gotham’s in my blood, and I don’t think I can let _you_ leave—” she opened the chest she carried, smirking “—either.”

“Huh,” Jeremiah said, peering over Bruce’s shoulder. “Remind me to believe you next time.”

Improbably, Bruce’s first impulse was to laugh, but he bit the inside of his cheek and watched.

“You re-forged it,” remarked Ra’s, watching as Barbara lifted the ornate dagger. “Well, now.”

“You see, you say you’re leaving,” Barbara continued, “but I’ve got a feeling you’re gonna be back.” She unsheathed the blade, and the guards drew their weapons. “I don’t like looking over my shoulder.”

Suddenly aware of movement behind Barbara, Bruce tuned out the remainder of her bickering with Ra’s. He spun and hauled Jeremiah behind the nearest concrete pillar just as Oswald, Tabitha, and several lackeys that Bruce didn’t recognize advanced and opened fire.

“Don’t do anything rash,” said Bruce, searching the inner pockets of Jeremiah’s blazer until he found one of the guns. “I need to get to Barbara. Cover me if you can.”

Jeremiah cocked the pistol and winked. “A little familiar even after all that, don’t you think?”

“Shut up,” Bruce said, but he gave Jeremiah a wistful half-smile before dashing into the fray.

Locating Barbara and Ra’s in the chaos was easy enough, what with the way they were sniping back and forth as they sparred. Bruce narrowly missed getting hit by several stray bullets, and it took all of his resolve not to turn back when he heard Jeremiah grunt in pain.

One glance over his shoulder to see what had happened was all the time it took for Barbara to grab Bruce’s wrist. She wrapped his hand around hers on the dagger and lunged at Ra’s.

Bruce let go and staggered back the moment Ra’s turned to glowing cinders and began to crumble, leaving Barbara alone in the moment. Even as Oswald’s surviving cohort fled the scene, he rushed to where Jeremiah was sitting.

“You’re hurt,” Bruce said, settling beside him. He touched the graze on Jeremiah’s left shoulder, pulling the handkerchief from Jeremiah’s waistcoat.

“I don’t even feel it,” Jeremiah said, guiding Bruce’s hand to press the fabric against his wound.

“Wait, do you mean to tell me that _this_ —” Oswald gestured incredulously back and forth between them, and then gaped at Barbara “—is a thing?”

“Sure,” said Barbara, with gleeful malice. “You should’ve seen the lip-lock when I walked in.”

“Barb,” Tabitha said urgently, grabbing Barbara’s arm and hauling her away, “we’ve gotta go.”

“I’m not even going to ask,” Oswald sneered, waving a sarcastic farewell. “Best of luck to you!”

Alone as abruptly as they had been outnumbered, Bruce and Jeremiah had scarcely gotten to their feet before several explosions went off. They froze, watching the first of the bridges fall.

Bruce approached the central window. He didn’t stop until he could set both hands against it.

“I didn’t expect it to happen this fast,” he said, watching as several more bombs lit the river.

Jeremiah slumped, his back to the glass, eyes fixed on Bruce. “Breathtaking, though, isn’t it?”

Without a second thought, Bruce stepped close, pinning him. They kissed until silence settled.


	4. Following No Other Way

Jeremiah could have stayed like that forever, pressed so impossibly close to Bruce that he could feel the heated weight of him, could taste each hitch in their stolen breaths. He shivered.

Easing back from the languid, ongoing press of their lips, Bruce exhaled, swallowing thickly.

“We need to get to the car before someone else does,” he said. “I have a place we can go.”

“Remember what I said earlier,” Jeremiah said breathlessly, squeezing his hand. “Lead on.”

Perhaps too stunned to engage in looting and pillaging just yet, most of the passers-by they encountered in the gloom were rushing toward points unknown. Jeremiah had recovered his shoulder holster on their way out the door and given Alfred’s revolver back to Bruce.

It was a strange relief to reach the Mustang without firing a shot. Bruce opened the door for him.

“Where’s this place, exactly?” asked Jeremiah, as Bruce backed them into the street and sped off.

“Midtown,” Bruce replied, swerving to avoid a cluster of people that looked somewhat unruly.

“Are you going to tell me what these accommodations are?” Jeremiah pressed. “Safe house?”

“Penthouse,” Bruce corrected, taking the next turn at breakneck speed. “My city residence.”

Jeremiah sat back and lifted the handkerchief, eyeing the bloodstain. At least none was fresh.

“You sure know how to show a guy a great time,” he deadpanned, suddenly feeling drained.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Bruce said, with a hint of mirth in his voice. “You had a hand in it.”

Closing his eyes and tipping his head back, Jeremiah sighed heavily. “My part’s a disaster.”

“You said it yourself,” said Bruce, reaching over to take his hand. “What’s done is done.”

The parking garage on-site was full of cars that would probably prove abandoned in days to come. Bruce held Jeremiah’s arm the whole way to the elevator, gun at the ready.

“I think everyone who lives here evacuated,” Bruce remarked, “probably in the first wave.”

“Not many here in the first place,” Jeremiah replied, lightheaded as the elevator finally halted, “if their occupation’s as sporadic as yours.”

The wide hall was empty, but still dimly lit. Jeremiah wondered if the building had a generator.

“I’m also the landlord,” Bruce said, slotting his key into the door, “so I should check tomorrow.”

“Something tells me you won’t find a soul,” said Jeremiah, curiously following him inside.

An open floor-plan wasn’t that much of a shock, and neither was the spacious kitchen area. 

Bruce led Jeremiah over to one of the broad, tastefully-upholstered cream linen sofas. “Sit.”

“You’re a man of few words when push comes to shove,” Jeremiah observed, “aren’t you.”

In as startling a gesture as any Jeremiah had seen, Bruce knelt in front of him and removed his shoes. He got up and left the room, his footsteps echoing back the hall, and then came back a minute later—shoeless, with a first-aid kit in hand.

“I don’t think you need stitches,” Bruce said, sitting down next to Jeremiah. He opened the kit and set it next to him on the cushion, and then nudged at Jeremiah’s hand so he’d let the handkerchief drop. “Do you think you can take your jacket off, or should I cut it away?”

Jeremiah sat forward and shrugged out of it, less to prove a point and more to get on with things. 

The pain was no more than a dull ache, what when Bruce instantly leaned forward and started on the buttons of Jeremiah’s shirt. He removed Jeremiah’s gloves one at a time, setting them aside on the elegant coffee table.

Jeremiah wasn’t sure when he’d closed his eyes, but the brush of Bruce’s fingertips against his cheek was startling. Bruce’s other hand was warm against his chest, too tender to bear.

“Can you take this off, too?” Bruce asked, tugging at Jeremiah’s open shirt. “I need to clean...”

Jeremiah forced his eyes open, realizing that Bruce showed no horror at the revelation of just how extensive Jeremiah’s transformation had been. He studied Bruce’s face.

“I can’t change what I am, either,” Jeremiah told him, resigned. “There’s no reversing this.”

Bruce’s only response was to lean forward and kiss him, both of his hands on Jeremiah’s skin now. He ran his trembling fingers down Jeremiah’s sides, slipping both around to his back.

“If you don’t take it off, I’ll cut it off,” Bruce cautioned after several tense, breathless seconds.

“It’s ruined anyway,” Jeremiah said, heart pounding. Reluctantly, he disengaged and complied.

Whatever disinfectant Bruce used to swab the wound, it stung worse than the bullet’s clip had in the moment of impact. Jeremiah leaned forward, not quite able to rest his head against Bruce’s shoulder. After several passes with the astringent-smelling cotton, Bruce spread antibacterial ointment over the area and taped some gauze over it.

“You’re lucky it doesn’t need more attention,” Bruce told him, relieved. “It might scar anyway.”

“I wouldn’t mind if it did,” said Jeremiah, meeting Bruce’s gaze, and took his face in both hands.

They kissed messily, with a desperation that made Jeremiah forget that they should be thinking about exit strategy, contingency plans, all of it. He wound his fingers in Bruce’s sweater.

“I won’t push,” Bruce said when they broke for breath, lips ghosting over Jeremiah’s ear, “because you might not be feeling up to it, but…” He huffed. “Come to bed with me.”

Jeremiah pressed his mouth against Bruce’s neck, dizzy with the invitation’s forthrightness.

“I’ll follow you,” he managed, reeling as Bruce stood and offered Jeremiah both his hands.

Surreal as it was, Jeremiah felt calmer than he had in months as Bruce led him into the bedroom. He watched Bruce turn down the extravagant covers, sank onto the edge of the mattress when Bruce urged him. He watched Bruce undress without a shred of shame.

“You can touch me if you like,” Bruce faltered, stepping mesmerizingly close. “I want you to.”

Jeremiah stared up at him, tugging Bruce forward by the hips. He’d never tire of those eyes.

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do, Bruce,” he breathed, pressing a kiss right over Bruce’s heart.

After Jeremiah had tasted and touched his chest for a while, Bruce went down on his knees, resting both hands on Jeremiah’s thighs. He kissed Jeremiah’s chest in turn, questioning.

“May I?” he asked, his fingernails scraping insistently against the fabric of Jeremiah’s trousers.

Too tense for speech, Jeremiah only nodded. In the absence of specific invitation, he’d avoided touching Bruce’s erection. He took Bruce’s restless hands and set them against his belt.

Bruce unbuckled Jeremiah without hesitation, making short work of his fly, too. Impatiently, he worked his hand inside Jeremiah’s boxers, and the touch made Jeremiah jolt.

“Quickly,” he begged, falling back, dislodging Bruce’s hand. He scrabbled at his waistband, pushing both garments clumsily off his hips. “ _Bruce_.”

There was some hilarity in the fact that both of them lost their socks last. They settled on their sides, face to face, hands insistent on each other as they kissed. Jeremiah stopped touching Bruce long enough to ease Bruce’s hand off him, shifting so he could stroke them both.

“Jeremiah,” Bruce panted, pushing into the touch. “That’s just—fuck, _fuck_ , I want—”

Abandoning his task so he could wrap his arm around Bruce’s waist, Jeremiah succumbed to Bruce’s frantic, imprecise kiss. He hadn’t dared imagine how the moment would feel.

“ _Shhh_ , dear heart,” Jeremiah whispered, scarcely aware of what he was saying, “go on.”

Bruce tensed instantly, stilling mid-thrust against Jeremiah’s belly, and spilled with a sharp gasp. 

Jeremiah closed his eyes and tangled his fingers in Bruce’s hair, twisting closer, as close as he could. The position was awkward, but he clutched Bruce tightly. He hadn’t expected this, that the feel of Bruce in his arms—warm, _willing_ against him—would be enough.

“Want you to come, too,” Bruce panted, his fingertips digging into the small of Jeremiah’s back.

“That…” Jeremiah swallowed a whimper when Bruce bit at his earlobe. “Won’t be an issue.”

Jeremiah rolled his hips, finding it easier for the slickness between them. Bruce’s breathy, exhausted moan did him in. Jeremiah’s climax felt so intense it was almost excruciating.

“Jeremiah,” Bruce murmured, holding him tight as he shuddered through it, “I’ve got you. I hope it’s good, I hope you’ll…”

Nodding as his pleasure ebbed, Jeremiah went slack against him. He didn’t have words for this.

“You made me feel…” Bruce trailed off, kissing Jeremiah’s damp temple. “I think you know.”

“Of course,” Jeremiah said at length, finding thought easier than seconds before. “I felt it, too.”

“Don’t move,” said Bruce, kissing Jeremiah’s cheek before awkwardly peeling away from him.

Jeremiah hadn’t caught his breath by the time Bruce came back with a warm washcloth. He closed his eyes and lay still while Bruce cleaned them, trying to grasp what this might portend. There was no need for what he’d done to win Bruce’s favor. He’d already had it.

“We should talk,” Bruce said wistfully, crawling back into bed, sprawling over him. “This—what we’ve done, do you regret—”

“ _No_ ,” Jeremiah cut in, opening his eyes to the breathtaking sight of Bruce gazing down at him. “How could I _ever_ regret being with you?”

Bruce released his breath, a taut exhalation. “I fell for you,” he whispered. “I should’ve said…”

“As if I didn’t?” Jeremiah asked, gathering him close. “Do you realize, I had to square with the loss of you when I’d only just found you?” He kissed Bruce’s cheek. “The ordeal, it…made a monster of me. I haven’t lost the capacity for self-awareness. I know what people see. Barbara called me _freak_. Maybe she was having flashbacks of my brother, _but_ —she meant it.”

“I don’t think that,” Bruce said, “and it’s not what we should be concerned with. It’s the fact that Jim Gordon will declare you a fugitive—and probably me, too.” He nuzzled Jeremiah’s cheek in turn, sighing against Jeremiah’s skin. “I don’t care. I’m staying with you.”

“You would do that?” Jeremiah asked cautiously. “You would risk everything, you would…”

“You risked everything for me,” Bruce said. “Goes both ways. I don’t see the difference.”

Jeremiah brought Bruce’s right hand to his mouth, startled to see a scabbed cut that followed his life line. He’d never shown skill for palmistry, however insistently Cicero had attempted to teach him. He kissed the wound reverently, eyes fixed on Bruce’s.

“This is what you meant,” Jeremiah said. “This is how they brought back that lunatic,” he went on reproachfully, wishing he’d killed the responsible parties when he’d had the chance.

Bruce bowed his head against Jeremiah’s shoulder, resting there. “I’m tired of everyone telling me who they believe I’ll become. I don’t even know, but...I’ve learned more about myself in the past twelve hours than I have in the past six years.”

“For what it’s worth,” Jeremiah said hesitantly, owning the risk, “I hope you’re at least mine.”

Laughter wasn’t the reaction he’d expected, but Bruce’s unabashed relief felt like absolution.

“It’s worth a great deal,” Bruce replied, sobering swiftly. “I hope that means I have you, too.”

Jeremiah kissed him deeply, achingly slow. “I was yours from the moment you looked at me.”

“We’re stranded,” Bruce said after a spell, lips brushing Jeremiah’s jaw. “Are you frightened?”

Shaking his head, Jeremiah ran his palms over Bruce’s back. “I knew what I was choosing.”

“We’ll spend a few days here, until the chaos dies down,” Bruce said, breathing warmly against Jeremiah’s neck, “and then find a way out to the Palisades, to the Manor. We’ll be safe there.”

“Your dark island,” whispered Jeremiah, trailing one hand from Bruce’s spine up to his nape. “It’s not the entire city, _but_ —maybe there’s something to it, just like I said.”

“To what?” Bruce asked, closing his eyes contently as Jeremiah stroked his hair. “Prophecy?”

“I’m still not sure I believe in _that_ , Bruce,” Jeremiah replied, “but I do believe in us.”


End file.
